


Salt Water Sting

by deathwailart



Series: Dutchman AU [2]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, F/F, Flying Dutchman, Insecurity, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-04
Updated: 2014-09-04
Packaged: 2018-02-16 03:30:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2254209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathwailart/pseuds/deathwailart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It isn't that Anne's ungrateful to be alive or dead or whatever she is but Mary looks the way she did when she died, Thatch does too, more or less, so why doesn't she?</p>
<p>Follows on from <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/2025408">Bury Anchors In Our Ghosts</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Salt Water Sting

It isn't that she's ungrateful.  
  
She's alive or near enough, perhaps something between dead and alive because she doesn't rightly know and it just seems the sort of thing you don't really question. She's out at sea again with a pistol, _Rackham's_ gifted pistol and _oh Jack, I miss you and all you daft man_ at her side. She's got Mary, Mary and her deep rough voice, Mary who laughs and smiles and looks at Anne as though she's all that's good and right and wonderful with the world, just like she always did. It's just that if Mary looked the same age she did when she died, why is Anne young again? She's not ungrateful, God knows she's not. There was an ache in her hp that never went away. Her hair wasn't even grey and sere, it was white, white as sails and gulls and cresting waves and she certainly never wore flowers in it. Her fingers were stiff, lumps at the knuckles that throbbed if they got knocked. That rattling cough that settled deep in her chest, leaving her breathless. And aye, she's missed moving so easily and missed how she used to sound, voice clear as a bell, missed her unlined skin and a body that didn't _sag_ but she didn't look like this when she died and there are others on this ship, grey and grizzled, missing limbs and all but here she is, young like Mary.  
  
Young like when they were in love.  
  
She takes to being quartermaster again with gusto and it's almost like she never grew old. She can close her eyes and imagine Jack's voice when her and Mary and Mary's lad took charge, the only ones sober enough for it. Like Jack never died in a cage. Like Mary never died from the fever that set in when they took Lizzie away and gave Anne abuse when she screamed for help. Like Anne's baby never died before he drew breath. Mary is so happy and Anne is too, she is, ecstatic and fit to burst, relishing being at sea and having Mary forever. But still, she wasn't like this when she died and it's not as if Mary didn't know because she was there with Anne when her last breath wheezed out of her. She tries to put the question from her mind because this is what anyone would want, isn't it? To be young forever, with the person they love forever, nothing but freedom ahead of them. But Anne well remembers being the sort of lass who turned heads through no fault of her own and the husband that couldn't handle that. It's what brought Jack into her life, running away with her hand in his when she refused to be bought and sold. It's what brought Mary into her life when she was dressed as James, Jack getting jealous until the truth came out and she assured Jack that of course she had love enough for him and Mary, don't be daft you fool.  
  
Sometimes though, she can't help but look at Mary at the wheel as the doubt settles on her shoulders. _Did you all only ever love when I was fiery Annie? Would either of you stayed when I got old? When I was still little more than a lass? Did you do this because you were horrified by what you saw Mary?_  
  
Sometimes Mary catches her and she smiles, shakes her head, says something about how she misses folk because she does. She misses Edward and hopes he bloody did right by his family. She misses Jack because he should be here and she loved him, still does and she wanted him more than anyone else when Mary was gone and Ah Tabai held her hand as she sweated and strained, already half-mad with her grief. She misses Thatch even though he was mad like a bag of cats and liked to call her silly nicknames that made her laugh. Mary's not convinced because she knows Mary as well as she knows herself and it's such a trivial thing and yet it's not at all, is it? Because she can't help that she's attractive, can't help that she liked to chat and liked to flirt because there's no fault in smiling and laughing and teasing with someone and yet she was sentenced to be flogged for it by a jealous man. And she had a life, God help her she did, she lived to be older than maybe all the rest of them, had her children and her grandchildren and now she doesn't have a mark to show for it but her memories when sometimes she expects to see one of them gently reminding her that she's no spring chicken, don't worry mother we'll help you, or for a little hand to tug her sleeve and ask for another story because was it true nan? Did you really go off with all those pirates?  
  
She can and does put it out of mind because she loves it. Loves the wind in her hair and drinking and singing, learning all the stories from the crew and the way they adore her from the start but it's the day she sees a familiar ship that shouldn't be on the horizon that it boils over.  
  
It's the Revenge. The Revenge the way she was and Thatch, mad bloody Thatch with the lit fuses in his beard and hat, roaring with laughter as they both drop anchor and he makes his way aboard and suddenly Anne is swept up in an embrace, trying not to find herself burned. Thatch has the good stuff on him and he's still drinking gunpowder but Anne doesn't have to clean up after him so they all sit and catch up and she missed this because Thatch always felt like the sort of mad uncle she never had and she douses a few fuses so she can put her head on his shoulder. She can get into the details of the how and the why because it's a friend she's missed terribly, a death that rightly gutted all of them and it's funny to see the look of awe on the faces of some of the crew who only knew the stories and not the man behind them.  
  
But it's when, half-tuned out of the conversation, that Thatch makes a joke that she feels her heart clench painfully.  
  
"Aye, I see how it is," Thatch comments, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he looks from Anne to Mary then back to Anne.  
  
"S'not like that Thatch," Mary says, a bit of an edge to it that'd have Anne reaching for a pistol if they weren't just having a drink with an old friend.  
  
"Looks that way to me. You told me about what happened to you and I remember what happened to me but I kept asking when you'd go get her. And look! Doesn't look like she's aged a day."  
  
"Leave off Thatch," Mary mutters and she can't look at Anne and she clenches her hands into fists.  
  
"Right, I assume you'll be sailing with us?" Thatch nods at the question, looking rightly confused, especially when she gets to her feet. "I'm off to bed then."  
  
"Annie..." Mary tries, reaching out but Anne is gone, not running but it's a near thing, an angry bitter lump in her throat as she goes not to the cabin she shares with Mary but into the little one that's really more for storing maps and bits and bobs than anything else.  
  
She locks the door, kicks off her boots, removes her belt and coat and shoves the clutter on the bed to the floor before she curls on her side, not even a candle for light and only her pounding heartbeat in her ears.  
  
"Anne..." It might be hours later when she hears Mary try the door. "Anne c'mon, we need to talk." There's a knock that follows, then a soft thud. Mary could get in here if she wanted, they both know that but there's a muffled thump after that again and Anne can picture it, Mary slumped outside her door in the dark, unreadable expression on her face. Anne lies there, heart still pounding, eyes burning, the questions chasing themselves around her head until the morn.


End file.
